Flashes
by fredweasleyismyspiritanimal
Summary: Post Fall. John has tried to move on with his life but to no avail. During a particularly horrid day, he finds something long overdue.


**Summary: **Post Fall. John has tried to move on with his life but to no avail. During a particularly horrid day, he finds something long overdue.

**Disclaimer****:** I, sadly, do not own this show nor its characters. That honour belongs to BBC and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I only own this plot and the torture I inflict on these poor souls. *maniacal laugh*

* * *

Flashes. Just… Flashes.

Flashes of a smile.

Flashes of blue eyes.

Flashes of those dark curls.

Flashes of a blue scarf.

Flashes of blood.

Flashes of screaming, crying.

Flashes of his best friend. Falling.

Falling.

Falling.

Doctor John Hamish Watson has been plagued by these memories since Sherlock Holmes met his untimely demise on the asphalt in front of St. Bart's. It started with a few flashes here and there in his dreams. Then gradually started becoming his nightmares, rearing their ugly faces every time he would shut his eyes.

John was slowly slipping into oblivion, all while keeping his perfectly structured, perfectly placid mask. He even tried dating to please Greg and Mrs. Hudson, even found a girl. Mary. She was nice. She was understanding, for as much as she could be.

She wasn't Sherlock, though.

Nobody was Sherlock.

No one could compare to that bloody incessant arse. No one was as annoying or obnoxious. No one was as brilliant or bloody perfect as that man. No one looked that way, and no one ever could. The way Sherlock had looked at him… Like he was perfectly the same and perfectly different to everyone else and Sherlock. He was hardly a genius and couldn't close himself off from his emotions, but he also didn't see Sherlock as a freak. Didn't see him as "different". He saw him as perfectly Sherlock.

And now he was gone.

* * *

John limped into the kitchen and put the kettle on. His psychosomatic limp had returned with a vengeance, not even a week after the incident.

He sighed. Not even twenty minutes into his morning and he's already thought about _him._

_Well, _he thought to himself, _better now than later in a crowded street._

John took in a shuddering breath and closed his eyes, images of Reichenbach flashing before his eyes. His heartbeat racing as he white-knuckled the counter top. _This is a trick… Just a magic trick…_

Oh, how John wished those words to be true. How he wished Sherlock to walk through that door right now and pull him into a bone-crushing hug that he couldn't, _wouldn't _try to escape from.

He sighed as he pushed away from the counter and limped back to the stove as the kettle began to whistle.

_Today's gonna be a hard one._

* * *

John trudged his way up the stairs and into his flat. He looked around warily at his surroundings. Everything was exactly as Sherlock left it. Well, anything that wouldn't be rotting after two years. John couldn't bear to leave his flat, his home. It was the only thing keeping him tied to Sherlock.

Thinking this, John began to, unconsciously, walk toward Sherlock's bedroom. Before he could talk himself out of it, he pushed on the door and it swung open, showing Sherlock's unmade bed and otherwise neat room.

He slowly made his way to the desk chair that held Sherlock's dressing gown, picking up the silk fabric and sniffing it. It smelled of tea and disinfectant and a musk that was undoubtedly _Sherlock._

A pang shot through his heart at the thought and he quickly laid down the gown and shuffled out of the room, giving it one, longing look before securing the door behind him.

John sighed as he made his way to the kitchen to put the kettle on, hoping it will help, _because tea makes everything better._

He smiled fondly and bitterly at the memory.

* * *

_"Ugh!" Sherlock pulled at his curls, pacing the floor once again._

_"Sherlock, if you keep pacing, you'll burn a line through the floor and then you wouldn't be able to pace anymore." John smiled innocently as Sherlock shot him a glare._

_"John, that is not possible, seeing as I've only been pacing for approximately twenty minutes." Leave it to Sherlock to time himself. _

_"Furthermore, as I'm sure you've realized, you're not helping." He deadpanned._

_John merely shrugged. "I don't see why you're so worked up anyways."_

_Sherlock stopped this time, "You don't-Ugh! I missed something John!" _

_John shrugged again, "You'll figure it out. You always do."_

_Sherlock sighed exasperatedly, "I. Never. Miss. Anything."_

_John rolled his eyes as he stood. _

_"Where- where are you going?" Sherlock asked, thinking that his outburst had undoubtedly bothered John, again._

_John chuckled at this, "I'm just making tea. Don't make such a fuss."_

_Sherlock glared at him, "How can you make tea at a time like this!"_

_John fixed a serious gaze on Sherlock, "Because tea makes everything better."_

* * *

_Minutes of Sherlock's grumbling and pacing later, John handed him a cuppa._

_Sherlock glared at the contents of his cup, most likely hoping it to spontaneously combust, until his face went blank and then a huge grin spread across it._

_He gazed at John as he whispered, "Tea."_

_John gave him a questioning look before mumbling, "Oh dear, I think he finally lost it…"_

_Sherlock then jumped up and starting rushing about, grabbing his things all while chanting, "Teateateateateatea."_

_"Sherlock… Are you okay?" John asked worriedly as Sherlock flung the door open._

_Sherlock looked back at him excitedly before running down the stairs and screaming, "It was in the tea!"_

_John smiled to himself, "Because tea makes everything better," And hurriedly grabbed his coat and ran after Sherlock._

* * *

He chuckled at the memory, not realizing that it had brought tears to his eyes. _Dear god, I can't even remember the good times without thinking of bloody Reichenbach._

Just thinking of the name every one had given the incident made him break down, not even listening to the whistling kettle in the background. He slid to the floor, hugging his legs to his chest, tucking his knees under his chin. Slowly, rocking himself, John calmed down.

Soon after the incident, John had diagnosed himself with a moderate anxiety disorder, the cause being blatantly obvious.

He slowly brought his breathing and heart rate back to normal before stretching his legs out and picking himself off the floor, leaning heavily on the counter.

Sighing, John limped back to the center of the flat, looking around warily for the second time that night.

_Damn, _He thought solemnly, _So, I guess this is as good as it gets… _

He took another glance around the room, eyes landing on his laptop. After the incident John hadn't even given a thought to the blog, or much of anything really.

_I guess I could just take a glance…_

He made his way over to the desk, sitting in the all too familiar desk chair, pushing the laptop towards himself. Lifting the top of the laptop, his eyebrows creased into a look of confusion. Sitting, right on top of the keys, was a small envelope, his name, _John Hamish Watson, _written across the back in a scrawl that was identifiably Sherlock's.

His heart rate picked up again. _Why didn't I ever notice this before? I'm so bloody stupid! This could be a note telling me to save him and I couldn't even do that! No wonder he jumped! If I- _

_No. That isn't, can't, be the reason. _

_Could it?_

John scolded himself for even letting his mind wander down that path.

Slowly, he sucked in a breath, and opened the letter. He watched the dust particles made their way out of the opened envelope.

_Do I really want to do this?_

_Yes. You have to. For him._

John sighed, nodded to himself and sat up straighter. Ready for the pain of Sherlock's dying wish. To not let him die. John knew that's what it was. It was Sherlock asking to be saved. But John couldn't even do that.

_**John,**_

_** I couldn't stop myself from doing this, from writing you. I miss you too much. **_

_What? What does he mean?_

_**I'm so sorry for what I did to you. I can't forgive myself for ever hurting you like that.**_

_What did he do to me? I don't remember having a row before… Before that._

_**You most likely won't be seeing me again. Not for a long while anyway. **_

_So it _was _a letter about the fall._

_**If I saw you now I probably wouldn't be able to leave again. And I have to do this. To keep everyone safe. To keep you safe. **_

Now John was completely and utterly confused on what Sherlock was rambling about. Keep him safe? Safe from what?

_** You probably haven't even realized what I'm trying to convey yet have you? You and that funny little brain of yours.**_

John wanted to be offended by that comment, but he was too touched by just reading one of the insults Sherlock used to throw at him. Too touched by just reading something Sherlock _wrote._

_** If you were here you'd hear me sigh. It seems that I have found myself apart of human error myself. It is a wonderful, joyous error. I would never want to change it.**_

_He's talking about sentiment. _John thought, then his heart squeezed. _Has he- Had he found someone? If yes, then who?_

_**I have found myself indeed feeling for someone close to me. **_

_It couldn't be Irene… Molly?_

_** John… I… I have realized that I have deep sentimental feelings for… For you, John. I love you, John.**_

John couldn't believe his eyes. His heart swelled at Sherlock's confession, and then plummeted to the depth of his stomach.

_He… He loved me… And I couldn't save him… I… I love you too Sherlock… I should have… But I couldn't…_

He drew in a shaky, breath. Steeling himself to read the rest of Sherlock's letter.

_** I realized this at the top of St. Bart's. I want you to know… No, I **_**Need **_**you to know that that is why I jumped. Not because I wanted to hurt you. God no, I never want to hurt you. But I couldn't lose you. I'm too selfish for that. So I jumped.**_

_What… What is he saying? He's acting as if…_

_** I didn't actually kill myself, John. I couldn't do that; I couldn't let myself do that to you. Again, I'm selfish. I'm writing to tell you that I have been slowly but surely wiping out the web Moriarty left. I can't let them get to you John.**_

_So, he's really…?_

_** I want you to know John, I **_**will **_**come back. I'm on the trail of the last of Moriarty's men. I've planned it out, and I've already made the date I'll be returning to you. I hope you forgive me for the pain I caused you. **_

John felt he was on the verge of tears.

_**I love you, John, and I miss you. I'll be seeing you soon, I promise.**_

_** With all of my love,**_

_** -SH**_

_** P.S. March 8, 2014**_

John's eyes widened as he looked down to the date on his phone, and slowly turned to see the door opening.


End file.
